


Between Dream and Reality

by VenusAmorette



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Humor, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Call of Duty: Black Ops, Call of Duty: Zombies, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigarettes, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description of Corpses, Guns, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Kino Der Toten, Medical Examination, Medical Kink, Modern Girl in Kino, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Sadism, Sexual Humor, Shooting Guns, Slow Build, Team as Family, Time Travel, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusAmorette/pseuds/VenusAmorette
Summary: ★ Zombies fiction started in 2012.  Chapter One is Table of Contents.Plot based on Zombies pre- Black Ops II, and a truckload of random ideas.  Definitely diverges from current canon, as I haven't played anything since the Black Ops II release.  Please forgive.  Adult (18+) writing! Rated M for language, content, and extra-crazy helpings of Dr. Richtofen.  Rating may change.Dempsey discovers an unexpected visitor in Kino, much to the Doctor's displeasure.  Involves time-travel, quantum mechanics, soul-stealing, sadism, and one very unlucky girl with a broken Xbox.  What secrets will she uncover between dream and reality?





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> On September fourteenth, in the year two-thousand and twelve, a twenty-something girl decided to make a pen name and start a random [fanfiction](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8525223/1/Between-Dream-and-Reality). I'm that girl, and this is that fanfiction. Even though it's still unfinished, it's the longest contiguous story I've ever written. I wanted to add a little polish and put it on the Archive … and maybe bring it, finally, to an end.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

* * *

☙ ❅ **Foreword **❅ ❧

★** Author's Note from September 14, 2012:**

So... I've been terribly addicted to CoD: Black Ops lately... Specifically Zombies. I play it way too much.

Of course, after a certain amount of hours spent playing this game and getting to know the characters, I wanted to write a fanfiction. I will shamelessly state that this involves the whole cliche: Girl randomly transports to Kino der Toten, gets implicated in everything, etc. I want to explore the character dynamics and that sort of thing, but a girl from the future will be included in the story, because I think it will be a fun scenario to write about and justify. Besides: One sassy girl plus four sassy men? Yes. So much yes. But, if you're not into this premise, please don't read.

That being said: I hope you stick around, because I'm a pretty decent writer, and I have an interesting story to tell!

I love all the "guys," but I'm particularly fascinated by Edward Richtofen (because really, who isn't?). He's so complex. At first, I thought: "Damn, this evil Nazi doctor is insane! What's wrong with him?" I just let him be crazy without trying to figure out why. Then I discovered his backstory (aka the backstory of the entire Zombies storyline). It was super intense and honestly (spoiler?) depressing.

I really want to examine Doctor Richtofen most of all, so... if you're interested, please keep reading.

★** Author's Note from August 14, 2019:**

Hey guys! I'm excited to be here. 

I hope the ride is just as fun the one thousandth time. 

* * *

☽ **Between Dream and Reality** ☾  
❅ Zwischen Traum und Wirklichkeit ❅

* * *

  1. **Foreword & Table of Contents**  
You are here!
  2. **At the Edge of the Abyss**  
Am rand des abgrunds  
❅ — Hang on folks, the show's about to begin!
  3. **Questions and Doubts**  
Fragen und Zweifel  


❅ — Our unfortunate visitor becomes acquainted with a certain Doctor and a certain lovable, smelly Russian.

  4. **Hate**  
Hass  
❅ — If you like the "guys" in action as much as I do, then you'll really enjoy this one … !
  5. **The Kiss of Death**  
der Todeskuss  
❅ — Lots of "the guys" being "the guys," and then some intense things happen. All I can say is thank god for Nikolai's comic relief!
  6. **Numb Heart**  
eine gefühllose Herzen  
❅ — This chapter is a bit short, but ... if I say so myself ... it's intense.
  7. **Lost Soul**  
verlorenen Seele  
❅ — We get a glimpse inside the madman ... and Kitty gets a little more than she bargained for.

* * *

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

❦ ☾ **Original Characters **☽ ❦

\- ❅ **Kathleen "Kitty" Draper** — Gamer, tomboy, hates being flashy. Her friends call her Kitty. She's twenty one years old and pretty friendly, but she will not take your shit. You can keep that to your own damn self.

* * *


	2. "At the Edge of the Abyss"

* * *

**At the Edge of the Abyss**  
Am rand des abgrunds

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

I knew something was wrong the minute the room became silent.

The jet-engine whirring of my Xbox stopped. So did my heart. 

I mashed the home button and stared at my TV. Nothing. Mashed it again. Still nothing. I closed my eyes, feeling my heart pound behind my ears. This can't be happening. I'd had my wheezing first-generation three-sixty for years now; it hadn't bailed on me once. But when I opened my eyes and cautioned a glance at the power button, my heart dropped.

Gamer's worst nightmare: Red ring of death.

I blinked, my eyes dry and bloodshot from three straight hours of killing zombies. Maybe I was hallucinating. If I could still hear their undead screams, maybe this was all in my head too. So I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the blood pulse in my temples. Come on, I thought. Don't give out on me now. We _just_ got to level 28.

I opened my eyes.

Yep, my Xbox was dead. I gulped down a thick swallow of regret, standing up off the couch.

Well,_ shit._

I stood there, staring at my worthless old console that would never wheeze again. I sighed. Then I knelt down to pry my Black Ops disc from its dying grasp.

My fingers touched the silver eject button, and I hissed in pain. It shocked me!

I jerked away from the console. Oh hell no. Insult to injury? Really?

I flexed my hand, popping the tip of my fried index finger into my mouth. I needed to think.

How do I rescue my game? That shit was not cheap. No way I'm leaving it in my trashed Xbox. But how do I avoid the electric death throes? I frowned, reaching for the power cord instead. No power, no pain.

My hand barely touched it when the wave of energy rippled over me, shocking me senseless. White light blinded me. My whole body tingled, and streams of electric blue static energy snaked around me, tangling over my skin. I realized I couldn't feel my fingers anymore.

Then I blacked out.

* * *

☽ ❅ ☾

Tank Dempsey lit a cigarette, expertly puffing it to life.

"Ey, can I have one of those?"

Tank chuckled, turning to his companion. He flicked out a fresh cig. A dirty gloved hand accepted it, lifting it to a chapped mouth with a split, bloody bottom lip. Yellow teeth grinned out, along with a gravelly ruski voice. "Light?"

Dempsey delivered.

Nikolai Belinski puffed a long drag, closing his eyes. He grunted approval, breathing out a thick stream of smoke. "Ahhh," he sighed. Dempsey grinned, a cloud of smoke trickling slowly from his nose. "Maybe I share vodka with you later," Nikolai continued, glancing at Tank. "Maybe."

Tank rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he drawled. He held an impressive weapon, which he checked every few minutes, as thought it might vanish.

"That's some sturdy equipment," Nikolai noted, nudging Dempsey in the ribs. Then he brandished his gun, altogether broader and more dangerous looking. "Mine's bigger," he growled, winking.

Tank rolled his eyes again and finished his cigarette, stamping the butt into the ground. "Come on, _comrade_; let's go find the others."

It was marginally warmer inside the theater. Dempsey could tell by the puddles of water that formed in the corners of the room, where the ceiling caved in. They weren't frozen.

Every board creaked; the carpet was molding. Sickening rusty blood smears stained windowsills and doorframes. Nikolai and Dempsey paid little attention to this graphic detail as they made their way to the stage, walking with deliberate purpose. Both of them checked every corner as they passed, craning their necks to make sure they didn't miss anything.

Nikolai, still sucking on his cigarette, stepped through the backstage door and checked both sides before nodding for Tank to follow. The two of them walked through, immediately deafened by loud electrical sounds. To their right, a giant machine crackled with energy. There was a tall man hunched beside it, fiddling with something.

"Hey doc," grumbled Dempsey. "When are you gonna be finished? We're rotting over here."

A harsh voice echoed through the space. "You should be no stranger to that, Dempshey." Richtofen stopped fiddling with the massive contraption, turning to face Tank. A look of pure loathing embittered his long, sharp features. "Perhaps that's vhy my patients like you so much. You have something in common."

Nikolai laughed, then choked on a gulp of smoke. He threw his cigarette to the floor and stomped on it.

"The well-run group is not a battlefield of egos," murmured a stern voice from the middle of the stage. Takeo Masaki was perched on a fallen speaker, looking at his feet. His eyes were cast in shadow.

Dr. Richtofen chuckled. "Good luck making Dempshey understand. He's too stupid." He turned back to the teleporter and fiddled some more.

Tank groaned, hefting his weapon over his shoulder. "Fine. I'm not gonna stick around here and wait. Maybe I can find some stray maggotbags to fill with lead." He walked past the doctor and jumped off the stage, starting down the debris-littered aisle.

Everyone was quiet.

"I'm hungry," growled Nikolai.

* * *

Tank wandered around the theater lobby, peeking through boarded up windows and scanning his eyes over the stairwells. Nothing. Not even one filthy zombie. Bored and crestfallen, he walked to the staircase to pop a squat. That was when he heard it. Something moaned in the corner of the room.

He jerked to his feet, senses on alert. His eyes moved toward the sound, and he noticed something stirring behind the old concession stand. He approached slowly. What was the shit-sack doing down there? He frowned. Something wasn't right.

He caught his breath, holding it as he edged closer to the ruined concession stand. He peered over it. There was a body huddled in between the counter and the pop machine. If he didn't know any better, he'd think it was hiding. But they never hid. They weren't smart enough to do that.

He inched closer, to get a better look.

It was wearing a dress.

"What the hell …"

He glanced back toward the stage, then at the body. It groaned and rolled over.

"Holy shit," he gasped. It was a girl. He stepped behind the counter and knelt down, squatting next to her.

She was covered in moldy dust and paint chips, as though she'd been rolling around on the floor. Her dark hair was gray with crud. So were the elbows of her long-sleeved dress, and the knees of her thick black stockings. As he knelt there staring at her, she coughed, gasping for breath. Breathing was always a good sign, especially when the next dead thing might gnaw off your shin.

He slipped a grimy hand underneath her head, grimacing at the contrast between her clean, dusty skin and his filthy, bloody fingernails. "Hey," he murmured, nudging her shoulder with his other hand. "Hey, you alive?"

She groaned. "Ugh," she grunted, rousing. She lifted her hands to her temples, rubbing her face. Then she curled up off the floor, leaning back to sit on her heels. Her boots squeaked against the floor. She wiped the dust from her face and opened her eyes, blinking a few times to focus.

At first, she just stared.

Then she frowned at him. "Who … ?"

She didn't finish. She'd looked past him, distracted by the room around them. A worry line creased between her eyebrows, and she stared out at the lobby, taking everything in. Her mouth slowly gaped open.

She turned back to Dempsey, then the middle of the room. Her eyes unfocused and she shivered.

"Oh my god," she moaned, running a hand through her hair. "I have _got_ to stop playing this game."

Dempsey frowned at her. "Game? What game?" He grabbed her shoulder, serious as a heart attack, and she lifted wide eyes to meet his. "Listen. I don't have time for games, and believe me baby, you don't either."

She stared at him. "What do you mean?" She looked utterly lost, and slightly annoyed.

Dempsey groaned, frustrated. "Do you know where you are?" he growled.

Her brow furrowed. "Yeah … ?"

"Then you know there's no time to play games. So stop playin' whatever you're playing."

She blinked. "But … That's what this is, right? A game. It's a videogame." She groaned. "I'm dreaming about a videogame …"

Dempsey stared at her like she'd grown an extra limb. He cleared his throat. "Uh, look. I don't know if you hit your head or something, but … I have no idea what you're talking about. And I don't have time to find out." He stood up, offering her a hand. She stared at it.

He set his jaw against the anger boiling up inside of him. "For the love of God, take my fucking hand," he growled. She immediately grabbed it and he pulled her to her feet. "Come with me," he grumbled. "I'm not happy about doing this, but …" he trailed off, talking more to himself than to her. She just followed, staring at him like he was a ghost.

They started toward the door to the theater. She was craning her neck to look at everything they passed. She touched the piles of crap under the stairs, the doorframe, even the first chair she saw in the theater.

"Come _on,_" he hissed. She jerked back toward him, tearing her eyes away from the ceiling.

He sighed. Leave it to him to find the first living person they'd seen in ages, and have her turn out to be messed up in the head. As much as he hated the thought of it, there was only one person he could think of that might be able to help.

"Hey, doc," he shouted, halfway down the aisle.

The man in question was still on stage next to the teleporter, which was no longer rippling with electric energy. His back was to them, and he stiffened at the sound of Tank's voice.

"Leave. Me. ALONE," he yelled.

Tank groaned. "Calm down, crazy," he grumbled. He turned to look at the girl by his side, who was now staring at the teleporter. Her eyes looked like they might fall out of her head. He sighed. "I really need your help, Richtofen," he said loudly.

The doctor was frozen in place.

"Vhat did you say?" he asked, his voice low and deadly.

Tank clenched his jaw. "I said, _I really need your help,"_ he repeated. His voice was strained.

Edward Richtofen stood up, straightening to his full height. Then he turned slowly around to face them.

"Und vhy vould you…"

But he'd found the answer to his question before he finished asking it. She was staring at him with terror.

"_Interesting_," he murmured.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *


	3. "Questions and Doubts"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our unfortunate visitor becomes acquainted with a certain Doctor and a certain lovable, smelly Russian.

* * *

**Questions and Doubts  
**Fragen und Zweifel

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

I stood there, shaking, as the deranged doctor checked my pulse. He'd removed one glove, and his bare fingers on my neck were chilly and terrifying.

… His _fingers_ on my neck? He's a fictional character. I'm dreaming. He can't really touch me.

But he was.

I shivered, feeling nauseous. Nothing made sense.

"She seems to be in shock," he began, his voice surprisingly level. "Her pulse is fast, but very veak. Und ze shallow breathing indicates psychological distress." He pressed his stiff fingers underneath my chin, lifting my face to meet his. He stared into my eyes. I could feel my heart rate quicken.

"Interesting," he murmured, his eyes gleaming.

He was delighted by my terror. Unsurprising.

"Vhere are you from, little girl?" he asked, his voice low. I swallowed.

"Um. The US." My voice was shaking. I could feel my hands trembling at my sides. He removed his fingers from my neck, narrowing his eyes.

"Und how did you get_ here_?" he continued, looking at me carefully.

My mind flashed images of my red-ringed Xbox, the static energy, the blinding white flash of light. I closed my eyes against them. "I don't know," I murmured, knowing it wasn't the truth. I had a sneaking feeling in the pit of my stomach; a feeling that told me I knew exactly what had happened … even if it _was_ utterly unbelievable.

His eyes were skeptical as he regarded me. Richtofen probably knew how to tell if someone was lying. He was certainly smart enough.

"I see," he hissed. His face was stony. "Und you are sure of zhis?"

I nodded, jerking my head up and down. "I just … I … opened my eyes and here I was."

He stared at me, buzzing with doubt. It was like watching a coiled snake, ready to strike … except ten times more menacing.

Dempsey stepped in. "Look, doc. I just found her on the floor in the lobby, moaning and groaning. She ain't right. I think she hit her head or something."

Richtofen shook his head. "She is not dizzy, her vision is clear, und her pupils are normal und reactive. Her symptoms are of shock, not an injury of ze head."

Dempsey frowned. "But … She was talkin' nonsense … Something about games and shit."

My heart throbbed with panic.

"Games?" Richtofen hissed. His eyes hadn't left my face. "Vhat games?"

I shook my head. "I don't know," I murmured, aware that I was playing a new kind of game. A dangerous one. "I honestly don't know what's going on."

The doctor sucked in a sharp, exasperated breath, pressing the bare fingers of his left hand to his temple. He closed his eyes, muttering. "Vell certainly you have a NAME, don't you?" he finally snapped, his voice rising an octave. I shuddered. It was funny to hear him rant from inside the television screen … Not quite as much when you were inside the screen, too.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Dempsey staring at me intently.

Dempsey, staring at me. Richtofen, screaming at me. My head was spinning with the impossibility of it all. I closed my eyes against it.

"Kitty," I mumbled. "Kathleen. I mean, my name's Kathleen. But my friends call me Kitty."

I opened my eyes to see that Richtofen was still staring at me. He hadn't looked away the whole time.

"Vell, _Kazhleen,_" he spat, his voice venomous, "Hopefully zhis amnesia vill wear off. If not, I vill have to take matters into my own hands." His eyes flickered with something live and terrifying before going cold again. "In any case, you must find a veapon to defend yourself against my minions. Dempshey, you go find a veapon for ze girl."

Dempsey looked unfazed by the prospect, possibly even excited. "My pleasure," he rumbled, turning eager eyes to meet mine. He grinned. "Hope you like killing gutterslugs, little lady."

I fought the urge to grimace. Even Dempsey's particular form of bloodlust was slightly terrifying from behind the scenes.

"Ey, what's going on?"

I felt another jolt of shock at the sound of Nikolai's voice.

"Oh!" squealed Richtofen. "_Wunderbar_. Nikolai, do you know vhere Dempshey can find a spare veapon?"

But the Russian wasn't paying attention. He was staring at me like I'd just spontaneously combusted. "_Ni khuya sebe_," he grunted, blinking slowly. "Does anyone else see that girl … ?"

Dempsey sighed. "She's real," he grumbled.

"Oh." Nikolai blinked again. "How'd she get here?"

"She von't tell us," Richtofen snapped. "Now stop standing around und go find her a veapon before ve are all disemboweled by my patients!"

* * *

☽ ❅ ☾

The girl looked terrified and angry as they walked backstage. She kept glancing toward the boarded up windows and doors, like she already knew what to expect. Of course, they _were _all covered in blood …

Dempsey cleared his throat. "So, uh … Kathleen, huh?"

She glanced at him. They were walking toward the alley now, heading for the lower hall.

"Yeah," she murmured. "Or Kitty." Then she looked away.

"Kitty," bellowed Nikolai, turning to face her. "That's pretty." He smiled. "Hey, I rhymed!"

Her nose wrinkled. "Yeah, thanks," she muttered. She looked at the ground.

Tank was uncomfortable. He hated seeing a girl in distress. Maybe he was old-fashioned, but something just didn't feel right about letting her stay so scared. "Hey," he said, edging closer to her and trying to soften his gravelly voice. "You know you're safe with us, right?" She turned to face him, and he noticed just how tall she was. Smugly, he realized he was still taller.

Her dark eyes searched his face. "I don't think I'll ever feel safe here," she said, her voice quiet.

As they stepped out into the cold sunlight of the alley, Tank knew she was right.

"I don't feel safe," growled Nikolai, squinting at the bright midday sky. "There are hell pigs everywhere. But a big gun helps."

At that, she actually laughed. "Guess I need one of those," she chuckled, kicking a rock under the boarded up fence.

Tank smiled. "Wait 'til you see what we've got up here," he said, scaling the stairs to hold the next door open. She followed, hesitating, making sure it was okay. Nikolai nodded for her to go on.

They followed her into the room, Tank moving ahead to stand next to a dented metal doorway. "You ready?" he asked, grinning.

"I am," grunted Nikolai.

Tank opened the door, revealing a deep closet piled high with huge wooden crates. Some were on the floor, opened to reveal stacks of weapons piled in sawdust. The ones that were closed were painted with sprawling, ominous question marks.

"Mystery boxes," Kitty whispered.

"What?" Tank asked, turning to face her.

She shook her head. "Nothing. … What gun should I pick?"

Nikolai was digging through one of the open boxes, looking frustrated. "She needs ray gun," he grumbled. "Easy to work, but so tiny. I will teach her to use FN FAL later."

Tank frowned. "You sure she can't pack something bigger?"

Kitty coughed. "I'm not exactly _built_, you know," she mumbled, leaning over to watch Nikolai shuffle through the box. Tank walked up next to her, sizing her up.

"You're big enough," he stated, blunt. "Give me your arm."

She stared at him. "Uh, what?"

"Give me your arm," he repeated, holding out a hand. She stared at it, lifting her arm slowly toward him. He reached out and closed his fingers around her bicep, squeezing gently. "Hah," he barked, smiling wide. "You weren't lyin', were you?"

She gave him a deadpan stare. "Thanks for noticing," she said dryly. That just made him laugh.

"We're gonna have to build her up," he said to Nikolai, chuckling.

"Aha!" growled Nikolai. "I found it!" He pulled out the tiny red gun, brushing sawdust off of it. Then he stood, holding it out to her. "Here. One shot, and the hell pigs die." He demonstrated on the lid of a nearby box. The wood imploded, crumbling to the floor.

"Ooh-rah!" shouted Dempsey, his eyes gleaming at the destruction.

"Here," Nikolai grunted, passing the gun off to Kitty.

She reached out to take it, turning it over in her hands. "Unbelievable," she murmured, running reverent fingers along the barrel of the gun. She touched the nozzle and the trigger, aiming for another box lid. Then she took a deep breath, and squeezed.

Rings of green energy rippled from the tip of the gun. Wood splintered everywhere.

Tank and Nikolai raised their eyebrows.

"Girl's got spunk," Tank noted, looking at her with obvious astonishment. Nikolai just grinned.

Kitty smiled. "I think I'm ready to kill some zombies."

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ni khuya sebe = "No fucking way," in Russian, to my knowledge!


	4. "Hate"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you like the "guys" in action as much as I do, then you'll really enjoy this one … ! c:

* * *

**Hate  
**Hass

* * *

☽ ❅ ☾

"Woah, too close, meatsack!" roared Dempsey, filling up a zombie with bullets. He almost tripped over a couch as he stepped backward. "You okay in there, Tak?" he called to the other room, backing through the doorway to the balcony hall.

"The swarm is thinner here," Takeo noted, keeping his eyes on a hole in the ceiling. Blood dripped slowly down, puddling on the floor.

Back in the corner, Nikolai groaned, leaning against a boarded up doorframe. "I think maybe I am sick," he moaned, clutching his stomach. Then he belched loudly. "… Oh. Nevermind."

Takeo cursed in Japanese. "You stink so much," he spat. "Filthy drunk." He left down the stairs to the saloon, nose wrinkled. Dempsey frowned after him, chancing a glance toward the stairs.

"Tell us if you find more maggots down there," he yelled, reloading his M16.

"Ey, where is Kitty?" asked Nikolai, looking around as though she might suddenly appear. Tank nodded toward the hall that led to the bathrooms.

"Last I saw, clearing the powder room."

Sure enough, she came bounding through the hallway from the direction of the toilets, ray gun in hand. A few dark, sweaty strands of her long hair clung to her face, and the right knee of her thick black stockings had a run in it. "No zombies in the shitter," she told them, grinning. She was breathing heavily, rushed with adrenaline.

There was a smear of blood on her neck and a long scratch running zigzag down her chest. It vanished beneath the vee of her dress. Tank stared at it a little too long, and she gave him a dirty look. "Hey asshole, my eyes are up here," she snapped.

Tank frowned, his face reddening with rage. "You're fucking hit," he snarled, gesturing to the injury. She looked down, grimacing at the swollen red gash.

"Oh yeah," she muttered, touching it delicately. "Forgot about that."

"You can't let 'em get so close," Tank grumbled. "Otherwise we'll have to call the damn doc in here."

"Do I look like an idiot?" she asked, offended.

Nikolai coughed. "Um, you guys? Bigger problems."

They twisted around to see him staring at a small crowd of zombies, pulling apart the boarded up doorframe. He shot a couple, but one reached out and swiped at him. He cursed violently. "No touchy!" he bellowed, wresting the zombie's arm away. In the process, he unintentionally ripped it out of its rotting socket.

He stared at the arm in disgust. "The fuck," he growled, throwing it to the floor. The zombie shrieked in his ear. He punched it in the face. It moaned and fell to the floor, where he shot it. "Filthy hell dog," he spat. "Die. Again."

Tank and Kitty stared at him for a moment, disturbed and impressed.

"What?" Nikolai grunted, kicking the zombie's arm toward the corpse.

Dempsey blinked and shook his head. "Come on, guys," he said, checking the ceiling hole one more time. "Let's head for the stage."

The three of them ran down the stairs, collecting Takeo on their way through the saloon. There was a neat pile of zombie corpses in the corner, all facedown. Dempsey gave a low whistle.

"Nice work, Takeo," he said approvingly.

They moved toward the dressing room, keeping their eyes peeled.

"Pretty quiet," murmured Kitty, and Takeo nodded.

"They will strike again," he warned.

They sprinted through the dressing room, filing out onto the stage.

"Where's the doc?" Dempsey asked, addressing no one in particular. He looked around the empty stage, moving quickly toward the turret in the center. The others followed.

Richtofen was nowhere to be seen.

"He is sly and silent, like the cat," murmured Takeo.

A howl of wild laughter filled the room, directly contradicting Takeo's reverent words. The doctor in question barreled down the aisle, _schirmmütze_ visor askew, military jacket flapping open. His eyes gleamed with madness. In the middle of the theater, he twirled around and unloaded his MP40 into an oncoming hoard of zombies, striking them precisely in the face. "Keep your heads down next time!" he yelled, laughing maniacally at both his own irony and their exploding skulls.

In a split second, they were all on the floor.

The group on stage watched in silence as Richtofen stood there, his back to them, breathing heavily and surveying the carnage. It was a long moment.

Then, calmly, he reloaded his gun, straightening up to his full height. His breathing slowed. Standing stiff and tall in the middle of the aisle, he buttoned up his jacket, fixing his collar. Then he removed his visor and reshaped it, running a gloved hand through his hair before replacing the _schirmmütze _on his head_._ He looped the MP40 through his belt, turning to face the group on stage.

"I zhink zat vas ze last of zhem," he muttered, accent thick. His voice was surprisingly low and calm, like he was merely commenting on the weather. He strode toward them, lifting himself onto the stage with ease.

"You are truly a mighty warrior, Richtofen," murmured Takeo, bowing slightly to the doctor.

Dempsey was frowning. "He just got lucky," he grumbled.

"So, we have break?" Nikolai asked, sounding hopeful.

Richtofen's expression was inscrutable. "Impossible to tell," he said, suddenly frowning. He reached up and plucked a chunk of blackened, rotten zombie flesh off of his neck, examining it. He sniffed it delicately before tossing it to the floor.

Kitty wrinkled her nose. He noticed, narrowing his eyes at her. "I see ze girl has an injury," he hissed, staring unrepentantly at her chest. "How expected." She flushed.

"It was an accident," she snapped.

"As opposed to intentionally letting ze minions touch you?" he snarled, his voice filled with hatred.

She was speechless, staring at him in shock. He stared back, derisive and condescending. Then his eyes strayed down to her right hand, where she held the ray gun. His face twisted with anger. "Vhere did she get zhat?" he asked, his voice rising.

Nikolai grunted. "She needed gun. Ray gun is easy, kills the hell pigs fast."

Richtofen was shaking with inexplicable rage. "Und vhy vould she need to kill them so quickly?"

Dempsey stepped in. "She's not exactly a soldier, doc," he muttered, giving him a significant look. "It's small, packs a punch, and probably the only gun she can handle. I mean, a different gun might be the death of her, if you catch my drift."

Richtofen was silent, staring at Dempsey with utter loathing. "Und zhat is a problem _vhy_?" he snarled.

Everyone stared at him.

He gave an exasperated sigh. "She's already vounded herself, even vith ze aid of ze ray gun," he explained, impatient. "Vhy postpone ze inevitable?"

Kitty stared at him for a moment, unable to speak. Then she took a deep breath and swallowed. "You honestly don't care if I die," she murmured. It was an observation, not a question.

Richtofen turned his cold eyes to her again. "You are of no use to me."

She closed her eyes. "So you want me gone," she continued, her voice low and furious.

"Correct," he whispered, his eyes flashing with contempt.

"Well, guess what?" she snapped, setting her jaw. "The feeling's mutual." Then, blinking back unbidden tears, she turned on her heel and stalked off toward the dressing room.

Richtofen watched her leave, stone-faced.

"Was she crying?" Nikolai asked, very loudly.

Dempsey was shaking his head, looking at Richtofen with disgust. "What is your _problem?_" he muttered.

The doctor walked to the edge of the stage and sat down, adjusting his boots. "She is dishonest und a liability," he said, matter-of-fact. "Ve are better off without her."

"A single arrow is easily broken," murmured Takeo, but even he looked disturbed.

"Well, I'm gonna go find her," said Dempsey. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let those things get her." He shouldered his M16, walking off in the direction she'd left.

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

I sat on the filthy floor of the costume closet, hidden behind a rack of thick, musty skirts.

My head was spinning. I could feel my pulse pounding against my skull, and a cold sweat tingled all over my body. My eyes burned and my throat was dry with terror and panic.

_This isn't real. This isn't real._

It was a mantra I'd been repeating to myself since I'd opened my eyes in the lobby. So far, it was the only thing that kept me clinging to sanity.

My chest throbbed with pain, and I lifted a finger to touch the swollen, bloody line that ran from my clavicle to my sternum. This injury was real. It really stung when I touched it. I pulled my fingers away, and they were speckled with blood. My blood. My _real_ blood.

The pulse in my skull pounded harder, making my temples ache. _This isn't real._

But it _was _real.

I'm really here. I'm really in this place, surrounded by monsters I can't escape.

I curled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Leaning my cheek against my torn-up stockings, I closed my eyes and wept. Really wept. The tears were hot and salty and I could taste them trickling down my face, moistening my knee where the stockings had run. I really _wasn't_ going home.

The disturbing peacefulness of acceptance washed over me, soothing and bitter.

"Kitty?" rumbled Dempsey's voice, echoing off the tiled floor of the dressing room. "Are you in here?" I could hear his heavy footsteps moving past the costume closet, into the saloon. His voice was muffled. "You shouldn't listen to him. He's fucked up in the head. Too much laboratory chemical shit or something."

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands, drying them on the bottom of my skirt. Then I grabbed my ray gun and got to my feet, straightening out my dress and brushing the dusty crud off my butt. I slipped through the costumes and out of the closet, walking through the doorway to the saloon.

Tank was starting slowly up the right-hand staircase, scratching the back of his crew-cut head. "Look, uh… I know I don't really know you, and you don't really know me," he said to no one, not realizing I was behind him. "But there's no way in hell I'd let a girl die at the hands of those bonesuckers."

I couldn't help but smile. If this was it, I might as well.

"Thanks," I murmured, my voice still raspy with tears.

He twisted around and saw me at the foot of the staircase, eyes wide. "Damn, don't sneak up on me like that!" he yelled. "I almost turned my gun on you!"

I laughed. "I can think of one person who'd be happy about that," I said wryly.

Tank scoffed. "Fuck that," he barked, walking down the stairs to meet me. It was still so strange to see him standing in front of me, an actual, breathing human being.

He shifted feet, uncomfortable. I realized I was staring at him, so I looked away.

"I'm not sure what to do now," I admitted, examining my ray gun.

"You survive like the rest of us," Tank provided. He stared at me for a moment. Then he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. It was extremely awkward, but I appreciated the gesture. Comfort is as comfort does.

"You got my back?" I asked him, very serious.

He nodded. "You bet," he said. And then he smiled a real, true smile, and in that moment, I knew Tank Dempsey was my friend.

The smile suddenly turned into a boyish grin, and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Hey, you hungry?"

Food. I hadn't thought about that in hours. Now that I did, my stomach twisted and growled.

Tank laughed. "Guess so," he chuckled.

"Is there food here?" I asked, doubtful.

He shook his head. "Nah. But there's plenty in town."

I frowned. "Are there people?"

He shook his head again. "Evacuated sometime before we got here. But the temp's so low that most of the food is keeping. It's stale, but it's edible."

"So, we go hunt for something fresh?"

He nodded. "You in?"

My heart throbbed with a twinge of panic. "Is it safe to leave the theater?"

Tank laughed. "About as safe as it is to stay inside," he said. I laughed bitterly, shaking my head.

"Alright, then. Lead the way."

* * *

◈ ❅ ◈

Dr. Richtofen sat in the center of the stage, leaning against a defunct speaker. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep, the visor of his _schirmmütze _pulled down to cast his sharp face in darkness. Nikolai slouched against the teleporter, drinking a bottle of white liquor. Every so often, Takeo would pass through the room, dragging a corpse out the door. Aside from the occasional zap of energy from the teleporter, all was quiet.

Dempsey's voice tore through the silence. "Anyone want some grub?"

Nikolai looked up, wobbling to his feet. "_Da_," he grumbled, stumbling off the stage. "_Spaseebo balshoye_."

"English, Nikolai!" yelled Dempsey, laughing. He carried a huge parcel in his arms, which he dropped off at the edge of the stage.

Richtofen looked up, staring coldly out at the proceedings. Apparently the Americans had gone scrounging for rations. Loathsome Dempsey was bobbing in and out of his sight, unloading a box of packaged goods and tinned products. The girl was making her way down the aisle, burdened with armfuls of bread.

She must have enjoyed a bit of looting in town, as she was now donning a fur-lined hat, and a thick winter coat over her dress and stockings. The pockets bulged with unknown treasures, and a large satchel bounced at her hip, twined with a heavy blanket. In spite of her formidable burden, her pale cheeks were flushed and glowing from the cold, and she was smiling. Loathsome happiness.

When she reached the foot of the stage, she offered one of the loaves to Nikolai, who made a guttural noise of pleasure and leaned in close to her face, smiling. She laughed at the shock of his sudden closeness, stepping back. He laughed too. "_Ty krasivaya_," he bellowed. "Just like fourth wife."

"I don't know what you just said," she chuckled, breathless. "And I'm not sure I _want_ to know." But she was still smiling at him.

"Very pretty," Nikolai grumbled, stumbling backwards. She reached out to steady him with one arm, balancing the loaves in the other.

"You okay there?" she asked, concerned.

Nikolai chortled. "_Da_, I have bread _and _a view," he hollered, self-satisfied. He sat down on the edge of the stage and broke off a leathery chunk of his loaf, still swaying.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile never faltered. She even patted him on the shoulder. "You better eat some of that," she called back to him, heading off toward Dempsey and the food parcel.

"Just put those loaves in the box," he suggested, shuffling tins around. "I'll make some room for ya."

Even Takeo had reappeared, his hands washed of zombie gore. He accepted a loaf of bread from the girl and took a seat on stage, as far away from Nikolai as possible while still being close to the food.

Now the girl stood there, holding the rest of the loaves, watching Dempsey rearrange the packaged goods. She looked at Takeo and gave him a low nod; she smirked at Nikolai. She glanced at the teleporter, the ceiling, the door to the dressing room. She looked everywhere but center stage, where Richtofen sat, unmoving.

"Pointedly avoiding me, I see," he stated, quite clearly and audibly.

She ignored him, rearranging the loaves in her arms.

"How very adult of you," Richtofen sneered, his voice lilting. "Vhat an _indispensable_ quality. I'm overvhelmed vith ze urge to _accept_ you now."

Dempsey turned to her, also ignoring the doctor. "There, that should be good enough," he said, taking a few of the loaves from her arms and placing them in the box. She piled the rest on top, smiling when they all fit.

"Good work, soldier," she said, grinning. He smiled lopsidedly at her.

"Oh, how sweet," Richtofen sang. "Ze Americans have bonded. Joy."

The girl removed her satchel, setting it next to the parcel. Then she climbed up on stage, walking to the box and bending over to retrieve a loaf of bread, a tin, and a spoon.

"Now zhey vill have a picnic!" squealed Richtofen. "So _romantic_."

She was digging in the pockets of her coat, searching for something. Finally, she retrieved a can opener, expertly using it to slice open the tin, bending back the lid. Then she stuck the spoon inside and walked deliberately over to Richtofen, holding it out to him.

For a moment, he was actually shocked.

He stared at the offering, stunned.

"Take it," she said, her voice soft and not at all bitter.

He lifted his eyes from the can to look at her face.

Her cheeks were still flushed, stark against the dark contrast of her hair. Even her lips were rosy from the icy conditions outdoors.

Females.

His face grew stony again. "Vhy not keep it for yourself?" he asked, his voice low and calm. "Isn't zhere some cautionary tale about feeding zhine enemy?"

Her eyes were gentle and infuriating to look at.

"You're not my enemy," she said, and a trace of a smile touched her lips. She set the can on the floor in front of him, offering him the loaf this time.

He did not accept it. His eyes narrowed. "How can you say zhat vhen you know I want you to die?" he asked, his voice harsh.

A flicker of anguish crossed her face, but it was fleeting. She looked at him sincerely for a moment, thinking. He could see the wheels turning behind her dark eyes.

"That doesn't make you my enemy," she finally said, and Richtofen noticed that the others were all staring at them. It made him uncomfortable. And angry.

"Zhen vhat does it make me?" he snapped.

Her eyes hardened, but she smiled.

"Difficult," she said.

And she threw the loaf of bread onto his lap.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da, spaseebo balshoye = "Yes, thank you very much."  
Ty krasivaya = "You're beautiful."
> 
> Chapter three complete! I can smell some interesting developments on the horizon ... !


	5. "The Kiss of Death"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of in love with this chapter. Lots of "the guys" being "the guys," and then some intense things happen. All I can say is thank god for Nikolai's comic relief!

* * *

**The Kiss of Death  
**der Todeskuss

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

For the first time in days, I felt happy.

The ray gun in my right pocket was a comforting pressure against my thigh, and the M16 strapped to my belt felt like heavyweight backup. They were my security blankets. It took a few hours of practice with Tank to feel comfortable with the three-round burst recoil of the assault rifle, and I wasn't anywhere close to being a master—but I could take out a fair amount of zombies if I kept my head and hands steady.

Little things still blew my mind sometimes, like the fact that I was using real equipment, no longer safe behind my Xbox controller. But I rarely had time to think. Thick black zombie blood stained my skin, caked my hair. My whole body was sore from the intervals of running and shooting. I didn't even want to know what I looked like in a mirror. Luckily, most of the reflective surfaces in the theater were shattered, so I didn't have to.

But some of the mind-blowing things were hard to miss, like Tank screaming "Ooh-rah!" in my ear, or the smell of Nikolai's janky breath in my face. They were real people, just like me. They bled like me, breathed like me, and fought their asses off. It hadn't even been a week, and I'd almost forgotten the reason I knew so much about them.

Then I would catch Dr. Richtofen staring at me from across the room, his eyes smoldering with hatred. It happened rarely, because I avoided him at all costs. But when it did, my heart would fall, icy in my chest, and I'd try to ignore the feeling that he could see all my secrets.

I don't know if it mattered, but I hadn't told any of them the truth. I'd convinced myself it didn't, that I was protecting them, that knowledge of the future would only be harmful. After all, these were men from an era that was distant even by my standards. Richtofen was a Nazi, for fuck's sake.

But every time he looked at me, his eyes scorching beneath the visor of his _schirmmütze_, I felt guilty. I felt like he knew.

And I felt like he was waiting for the moment he could prove it.

* * *

☽ ❅ ☾

Nikolai and Tank were on night watch, patrolling the building and boarding up any huge breaches. The sound of their hammers rang out every so often, peppered with Nikolai's colorful cursing. It was a lullaby compared to the odd gunshot, which somehow seemed louder in the dark of night.

Kitty was curled up by the fire in the back corner of the theater, wrapped in the blanket she'd looted from town. Her right hand was clutched tight around the ray gun. Every time she nodded off, she'd jerk awake, checking to make sure it was still there.

Takeo was a few yards away, sitting next to one of the few functioning radiators. He looked peaceful as he slept, relaxed in a way he could never be while conscious.

Stark still in the middle of the aisle, illuminated by the moonlight that streamed through the crumbling roof, Richtofen stood, stiff and silent. He seemed to cast darkness on the shadows themselves. In his gloved hands was a small portfolio of papers. He paged through it slowly, reading by the light of the moon.

The endless minutes ticked by.

Finally, Nikolai appeared on the stage, whispering loudly to Richtofen in the darkness. "Your turn," he rumbled. "Is quiet tonight. Peaceful."

Silently, Richtofen folded the papers up under his arm, walking toward Nikolai to relieve him of his night watch. The Russian gave him a drunken grin and climbed offstage, heading down the aisle toward Kitty and the fire.

She was awake, watching the two men trade positions.

"Do you still have my vodka?" asked Nikolai, looking edgy as he approached.

She nodded toward the bottle leaning against the wall. "Didn't touch it," she assured him.

His face immediately relaxed and he picked up the bottle, sitting down in its place. He uncorked it and brought it to his lips, taking a deep swig. "Ahhh," he sighed. "It is ambrosia of the gods," he chuckled, winking.

Kitty smiled, sleepy. "Where's Tank?" she asked.

Nikolai shrugged, taking another swallow. "Last I saw, behind me."

She glanced over to where Takeo was still sleeping, and frowned.

"Wasn't Takeo taking over for him?"

Nikolai nodded, his eyes heavy. They were both quiet for a moment.

She looked at the fire, gathering the blanket tighter around her body. "Hope he's okay," she mumbled.

"Dempsey is fine," Nikolai chuckled, leaning back.

"You bet I am," said Tank, appearing out of the darkness.

Kitty jumped. "Shit!" she hissed.

Tank grinned and sat down cross-legged beside her, joining them at the fire. "Scared ya?"

She glared at him. "Not funny."

"Awww," Tank teased, holding his arms out and leaning toward her. "Here, gimme a hug."

Huddled in her blanket, she tilted away from him. "Get away from me," she grumbled.

Nikolai grinned, sitting up. "Ey, can I have hug instead?"

"Can I have some vodka?" she countered, raising an eyebrow.

Tank barked a laugh. "Hah! Good one."

Nikolai frowned. "No. … Maybe." He looked at the bottle, which was draining fast. "… No."

Kitty grinned, closing her eyes. "Alright, then."

Tank poked the fire with the barrel of his M16, kicking it back to life. The three of them basked in the heat, letting themselves relax. For a moment, no one said anything. They just listened to the music of Nikolai's vodka sloshing back and forth in the bottle.

"Felt bad waking Tak up," Tank finally murmured, looking guilty. The fire illuminated his features, making him seem softer. Younger. "It's so quiet out there. Only two freak bags, and they were slow."

Nikolai grunted in agreement. "Maybe we should call them back," he suggested, thumbing his lower lip.

Tank shrugged. "Dunno."

"If we see them, we tell them?" Nikolai asked.

"Guess so," said Tank. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. "Doc's probably happy to be out," he grumbled, rubbing the short-cropped hair on his scalp. "Freak. Oh, speaking of," he said, turning to face Kitty. "How's that thing on your chest?"

She blinked at him, only partially conscious. Then she yawned. "What?" she asked, frowning.

"Your injury," he clarified.

She shook herself awake. "Oh, right," she mumbled. She shrugged off her blanket, unbuttoning her coat.

"Woah, woah!" Tank yelled, staring at her chest in horror. "Shit!"

Kitty frowned. She hadn't even had time to look down. "Is it that bad?"

"Holy fucking Jesus," Tank was murmuring.

"Ugh," groaned Nikolai. "That looks disgusting. Worse than first wife."

She glanced down at her sternum, and bit back a scream.

What had been a scratch for the past couple of days was now a raging, blotchy bruise that stretched across her chest. She could see veins spiderwebbing out along the edges. They were black and ominous, like the scratch itself, which had swelled and darkened in color. It reminded her of something.

The zombies.

She choked. "Oh god." Her heart was pounding, her eyes wide and frantic as she looked between her companions. "What do I do?" she asked, trying to stay calm.

Tank was horrified. "Fucking shitbags. Shit." He couldn't look away.

"I think this is bad," Nikolai declared.

"Fuck," Kitty moaned, taking off her hat, scratching her fingertips down her scalp. She cradled her head in her hands, trying not to sob. "This can't be happening," she whimpered, breathing heavily. "It's just not possible." She caught a glimpse of her chest again and gasped, looking up at the ceiling. Then she frowned, tears trickling down her cheeks. "This isn't funny," she said loudly, her eyes wide and angry.

Tank and Nikolai stared at her, terrified and confused. Tank's hand was poised over his M16.

Kitty was still staring up at the ceiling, gritting her teeth. "I know you're up there," she muttered, pissed. "Doesn't matter if it's nineteen-forty or the year five thousand. I know you're fucking up there and this isn't funny." She gave a quiet sob, cradling her knees up to her chest. "This isn't funny," she whispered, rocking back and forth.

Nikolai and Tank looked at each other.

"What do we do?" asked Nikolai, his face screwed into a frown.

Tank had been shaking his head for the past few minutes. He was speechless. He stared at Kitty, his eyes wild and terrified. Then he turned back to Nikolai, his face drawn. "She's turning," he finally managed, his voice hoarse. "She's fucking turning."

"What do we do?" repeated Nikolai, even more confused.

A cold voice rang through the darkness. "I have a solution."

The two men turned to see Richtofen standing there, just outside the light of the fire. He was watching them, his eyes gleaming with dangerous curiosity.

Tank set his jaw, frowning. "You," he growled, his voice low with disgust. He got slowly to his feet, staring the doctor in the eye. Richtofen met his gaze with cool apathy. "You knew this would happen," Tank snarled, glancing back at Kitty. She was still hunched over her knees, sobbing quietly. He jerked back to face the doctor, his eyes suddenly feral. "You _let_ this happen!"

Richtofen just stood there, silent and deadly.

Nikolai blinked drunkenly. "Hey, he's a doctor. Maybe he can help."

"Let me see her," Richtofen demanded.

"No," growled Tank.

"Step aside."

Tank stood firm, holding Richtofen's gaze.

The two men stared at each other, hatred crackling between them.

"Hey, Tank," Nikolai interrupted, "Let him go see her. He is doctor."

"He did this!" Tank yelled.

Nikolai frowned. "I thought a demon hellpig did it."

Tank growled, ignoring him. "You knew she was gonna turn the whole time, didn't you?" he snapped at Richtofen, a vein in his neck bulging with rage. "Say it!"

"Fine," Richtofen sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "Have it your way. Tell me vhen her eyes start to turn." Then he walked away, vanishing into the darkness.

"Why did you chase him off?" growled Nikolai, incredulous and intoxicated.

Tank turned to rage at him, but Kitty moaned, cutting him off.

"Call him back," she gasped. Tank stared at her in horror.

"What?" he asked, breathless.

She lifted her head to look at him. Her dark hair was matted around her face, cheeks streaked with tears. Her eyes were bloodshot, and one of the sickly black veins had stretched up her neck.

"Call him back," she said again, her voice raspy but clear.

Tank looked stricken. "Why?"

"He's the only one who might be able to help me," she said, her voice grave.

She stared at him for a long moment.

With a grim sigh, Tank realized she was right.

"Richtofen," he yelled, closing his eyes.

"_Ja_?" came a calm, nearby voice. Richtofen stepped back into the firelight.

"You didn't even leave," Tank growled.

"_Nein_," hissed the doctor, eyes glinting. "I vanted to observe."

Tank narrowed his eyes. "Observation's over," he muttered. "Now go do something."

Richtofen fixed him with a deadly glare.

"Do not order me around, _Schwein_," he snapped, his voice low and terrifying.

Tank took an involuntary step back, and Richtofen shoved past him, heading for the girl.

* * *

◈ ❅ ◈

She was staring at him now. Her pitiful, loathsome face was lifted, watching him.

Those abhorrent black eyes searched him as he approached, filled with defiance. But the urge to obey was twisting her face to implore him, instinct going against her vile self-reliance. She wanted his help. Hungered for it. _Yearned_ for it, even. But desperately wished to refuse it. Her eyes glistened with the glorious pain of her turmoil, and his heart pounded. _Beautiful. _He took in a sharp breath of anticipation.

So much agony, his for the taking.

He closed the distance between them, looking down at her for a moment. Subservient at his feet. How_ pleasing_. He noted that she was far less detestable like this.

Then he knelt down beside her, to begin the examination.

He quickly logged each detail of her condition, eyes cool and expertly calculating. They took in everything; the blackened flesh of the infection site, the spreading bruise, the intriguing dark capillaries. Treacherous curiosity flashed across his features. It glimmered in his eyes as he lifted them to meet hers.

"Come vith me," he murmured, offering her a black-gloved hand.

She took it.

He smiled a terrifying smile.

"Mein Patient," he purred, lifting her to her feet.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd certainly hate to be one of his "patients."
> 
> … right?


	6. "Numb Heart"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but ... if I say so myself ... it's intense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a writer, I want to shine for you, and keep you coming back for more!

* * *

**Numb Heart   
**eine gefühllose Herzen

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

I stood in the middle of the generator room, shivering.

It wasn't cold; it was actually incredibly warm. Everything seemed to have a red hue, buzzing with radiant heat from the live electronics. But my body was shivering anyway, a reaction to the spreading infection. I could feel the fever burning on my cheeks.

With a grunt, Doctor Richtofen shoved over an old metal storage cabinet, sending it crashing to the floor. I winced at the sound, clenching my teeth.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice dark.

Cautiously, I obeyed, crossing the dirty tiled floor. The cabinet was facedown, the flat metal back beckoning.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the makeshift tabletop.

I sat down gingerly on the cabinet, blinking my eyes. Why was everything so red in here?

"Remove your coat," he ordered, militant. I finished unbuttoning it, shrugging it off of my shoulders. A fresh wave of trembling accompanied the sudden lack of warmth.

He was watching as I shuddered, my teeth chattering together. "Interesting," he murmured, leaning down to stare into my face. He was wide-eyed and breathless, too eager.

It was disturbing. I had to look away.

He didn't notice, preoccupied with his inspection. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him remove his left glove. He pressed stiff fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. I flashed back to the last time he'd done this; my arrival, a few days ago.

A few days.

They'd felt like months. Years, even.

His hand was rough against me, unyielding. This man did not understand the concept of gentleness. He forcefully manipulated my throat with his thumb and forefingers, squeezing mercilessly. I could feel the fiery dregs of fear and resentment boiling in the pit of my stomach, waiting to erupt.

"Lymph activity is heightened," he murmured to himself, leaning in close to my chest. I could feel his hot, quick breath against my skin, and I choked back a wave of panic. His hand traveled down to touch the site of the wound, kneading my flesh. I winced, expecting pain.

There was none.

"Und how much does zhis hurt?" he asked, breathless with excitement. He pressed two fingers roughly against the swollen gash.

I shook my head, terrified. "It doesn't," I whispered.

His eyes flashed, mystified, and he glanced up at my face. "It doesn't hurt?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No," I said.

His eyes flickered between mine, wide and crazed. Then he turned back to the wound, pressing his fingers in outward concentric circles. He started from the center of the abrasion, moving toward the edges of the bruise.

"Tell me vhen you feel pain," he murmured, inhaling sharply.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling of his fingers.

But that was the problem. I _couldn't_ feel them. He was pressing his fingers hard against my flesh, and I couldn't feel them. My entire body was rocking back and forth with the force of his hand, and that was the only way I could be sure he was touching me.

I opened my eyes, and noticed that he wasn't even looking at the wound anymore. He was staring into my face, his eyes rapt with interest.

"No pain?" he asked, his voice low and clipped.

I shook my head.

He removed his hand, looking back down at the infection. Slowly, he trailed his fingertips along the edges, where my healthy skin touched the branching black veins. He pressed lightly against the edge of the bruise, and I could feel nothing. Harder, and still nothing. Then he mashed his finger against one of the veins.

My scream could have curdled milk.

The look in his eyes was worse.

"_Ja_," he moaned, too satisfied. His voice was low and hoarse. "I knew it," he murmured.

I was gasping for breath, trying to collect myself. "What?" I asked, my nerves electric, lungs on fire.

He didn't answer. He was tracing the vein with a reverent fingertip, sated.

"Remove your clozhing," he ordered, his voice calm again.

My stomach twisted. "What?" I said, too loudly.

"I need to examine ze extent of ze infection," he snapped, fixing me with serious eyes.

We stared at each other for a moment. My breathing hadn't evened, and everything looked red again.

"I can't," I gasped.

He frowned. "Vhat?" he asked, his tone threatening.

"I can't … breathe," I panted, breathless. My chest felt like it was shrinking into my stomach. I could hear myself wheezing, and it was very surreal. Out of body.

"Lungs beginning to lose function," he whispered, watching my heaving breast. "Any ozher symptoms?" he asked, staring into my eyes again. "Hearing? Shmell?" He leaned in close. "Eyesight?"

I blinked. "Everything's red," I whispered.

My heart stopped.

_I need to be revived._

There was some part of me, deep inside, that found this amusing.

The rest of me was frozen in horror.

"Vision degenerating," Richtofen whispered, his eyes flickering between mine. His face was so close, our noses were almost touching. It was terrifying. If I hadn't been about to suffocate, I would have punched him in the mouth.

Unfortunately, everything was going blurry. I could feel the lack of oxygen burning through my veins, making me weak.

"I must remove your clozhing now," he said, his voice clear and level. The voice of a doctor.

An _actual_ doctor.

His hands hooked around the bottom of my skirt, lifting it up. I felt him slide it off of my body. The delicacy of the motion was surprising. It could have been the lack of oxygen, but it almost seemed as though he was trying to be considerate.

Then I felt a warm palm press against my stomach. _Shit, _I could feel it! Maybe I wasn't as infected as I thought. My cheeks hurt, and I realized I was smiling.

"Lie down," said a stern voice, foggy and distant.

I obeyed.

The metal felt cool against my back. Very cool.

Cold.

It was so cold, it seemed to burn me. I writhed, trying to escape it. Two hands restrained me, one on my stomach, the other on my neck.

"Be still," the distant voice commanded, but I was distracted. The fire in my veins had spread to my stomach.

I felt hungry.

So _hungry_.

Everything was red.

"Help," I moaned, hearing a zombie scream in my ear.

Then the world went black.

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> ...
> 
> Just kidding! c;


	7. "Lost Soul"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a glimpse inside the madman ... and Kitty gets a little more than she bargained for.

* * *

**Lost Soul  
**verlorenen Seele

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

The pale, thin light of early morning streamed in through the windows of the generator room, washing everything in a faint glow.

Edward Richtofen sat with his back to the side of a generator, leaning against the smooth metal box. It was warm to the touch, humming delightfully against his spine. He'd nodded off several times in the night, lulled by the electric buzzing of the room.

Surprising. Sleep was a rare gift.

Perhaps the low drone of the generators helped drown out the _voices_.

He roused, getting slowly to his feet. His body was unpleasantly stiff. Bending down to retrieve his _schirmmütze _was a chore that caused his spine to pop. He stretched back up, closing his eyes in rapture as the rest of his joints cracked, loud and delightful.

That was when he remembered the girl.

Holding his _schirmmütze_ in his left hand, which was still gloveless, he stalked across the room.

She lay still on the makeshift table, belly up, dressed in her brassiere and stockings. She looked thin, but the waistband of her stockings squeezed into her flesh, making her seem softer. Richtofen placed his cap on the corner of the table, next to her left leg. Then he circled slowly, surveying her motionless body.

What a nuisance this girl was. Causing problems for him at every turn. He stroked his bottom lip with his left thumb, feeling his pulse quicken. How easy it would have been to let her turn. The very thought excited him. He could have observed the infection burning through her eyes, smelled the first moments of her _glorious decay._ He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. He imagined caressing her undead face, slicing through her delicate neck. Saving her skull for further examination. He shuddered, opening his eyes.

He could have let her turn.

But he had not.

There she lay, still loathsomely alive.

Her fleshy bosom rose ever so slightly with each shallow breath. He noted that the infection had stained her skin. The ragged line of the initial abrasion was an assuredly permanent scar, stretching from her left clavicle down between her breasts. He frowned at her whorish, avant-garde underthings, narrowing his eyes. If his suspicions turned out to be true, America must be permanently abhorrent and aberrant, perhaps even more so in the future. Pity.

He moved toward her face. Her long dark hair was matted, pillowing her skull against the metal. The color had drained from her cheeks, and her lips were pale and chapped. Dark circles pooled under her eyes. He noticed that blood had collected in the corners of her mouth, dry and rust-colored.

That was most likely a result of the bloodcurdling screams.

He remembered restraining her, his bare left hand on her stomach, his gloved one pressed against her struggling neck. Her perfect white teeth gnashed, trying to taste him. How he'd laughed, shushing her, retrieving the syringe from his pocket. In that moment, she'd reached up, clutching his jacket with inhuman strength, dragging him down close to her beautiful, dying face. He sighed, recalling the rapturous smile that stretched across his lips as he slipped the needle into her neck.

He combed his bare fingers through his hair, taking a sharp breath.

She would have been a stunning corpse.

* * *

☙ ❅ ❧

I have a friend back home in the future who hates getting sick.

Every time she gets the flu, or a virus, or even a cold, she moans and tells us all how bad she feels, like "death warmed over."

She wasn't even close.

Death warmed over is like a thousand bricks slamming into your body. Everything aches, even your bones. There's a vice around your chest, so you can't take a real breath; only horrible tiny ones that leave your head spinning. Your stomach hurts, your eyes hurt, your lips hurt, your throat hurts. And you can't move. Your body is too heavy. You hurt like hell and you can't escape it.

You're trapped in the pain.

You can't get out.

* * *

I had a throbbing headache.

The pale morning light seeped through my eyelids, making me hurt before I even woke up.

Someone moaned, and I realized it was me. I couldn't move. I tried to lift my head, and searing pain burned through my body, making me want to scream. But I couldn't even do that. My throat was raw and no sound came out, no matter how hard I tried.

"I vouldn't do zhat if I were you," warned a low, singsong voice.

Against my will, my eyes opened, reflexively seeking the source of the sound. The headache flared, making me squeeze my eyes shut again in agony.

"I vouldn't do _zhat_, either."

I lay there, helpless and terrified. I was literally at the mercy of a _madman._

"In case you haven't noticed, I have saved your life," he murmured. "You may be vondering vhy I vould do zhis."

Yes. I was indeed.

"In fact," he continued, almost as though he was reading my mind, "I am sure you are. So please, allow me to _enlighten_ you." He chuckled at this. "As though you even have ze option of refusing," he murmured darkly. "_Anyvay_. Pay attention."

As if I had any other choice.

"You are not of zhis time. I suspected as much vhen I first saw you." He was quiet for a moment. I could almost hear him thinking. "I can only assume ze M.P.D. brought you here. Vhy? I do not know." His voice lowered to a growl. "You were _very_ uncooperative in terms of answering my questions."

So he _could_ tell that I was lying. I should've known.

"I vas not surprised. You are American after all. Und a_ female_." He was silent again.

I tried opening my eyes, but had to shut them again immediately.

"Shtop that," he snarled. "You vill lose your eyesight."

His voice calmed. "To continue. I assumed you vould probably die within ze first few hours of your time here. Und without Dempsey's help, you most likely _vould have. _ But of course he felt the need to protect you." He scoffed. "_Ridiculous_."

Even behind my closed eyelids, I could almost see the loathing on his face.

"Und so you survived. Und were injured." His voice dropped now, low and intense. "I saw ze opportunity. _Ja_, I knew vhat vould happen. You vould become a minion. I could observe ze transformation, collect your body for _science_." His breathing had quickened. "How _easy_ it vould have been to let you become one of zhem," he sighed.

His breathing evened. "At ze last moment, I decided to preserve you," he murmured. "But do not presume zhis gift comes without cost."

Of course.

"You vill answer all of my questions," he commanded, his voice dark. "Und you vill do so without resistance. I vill not tolerate lies. I have _no_ reservations about taking your life."

He became quiet again, and the room was suddenly filled with a sinister energy. I could feel it creeping across my skin, thick and dark.

When Richtofen spoke again, his voice was dangerous.

"You are mine now," he whispered, and a chill shivered up my spine. "_Meine. _Do not forget."

Then I felt the tip of his finger trace the wound on my chest.

He'd been standing over me this whole time.

"I saved your soul," he murmured.

"Now it belongs to _me_."

☾ ❅ ☽

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you that are reading: I'm so happy to be able to share this story with you again.  
As always, my readers keep me going, and for that, I thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you enjoyed anything in particular, or have any feedback, please leave a comment!


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